I flew home when I got a text: Mom had fallen again. I offered to move her in. At dinner she smiled and said, “Thank God someone finally cares.” My brother Marcus dropped his fork.
While unpacking Mom’s suitcase, I found house keys, a jewelry box — and an envelope labelled “DO NOT TRUST MARCUS.” Inside was a note: Mom accused him of stealing thousands from her. She urged me not to confront him — just protect myself.
The next morning she admitted she’d called Marcus after falling — and he hung up. She’d crawled to the phone hours later.
Weeks passed. Marcus avoided her. Later he begged for a meeting and explained it wasn’t gambling — he’d used her money for a real-estate deal. But he never told her.
Mom just nodded and said, “He never could resist shortcuts.”
Then his girlfriend Tasha called — Marcus was in trouble and had pawned Mom’s wedding ring. The jewelry box was empty.
I tracked down the pawn shop, paid more than I could afford, and returned the ring. Mom cried quietly. “No one pawns your memories,” I said.
When baby Layla — Marcus and Tasha’s daughter — was born, Mom and I were there. Marcus wasn’t.
Watching Layla wobble through the garden, Mom sighed: “The hardest part was letting go of who we thought someone would be.” She smiled, sniffing: “The best part? Seeing who actually shows up.”